


Scandalwood Tales: Cheap Chocolate's Eve

by Anonymous



Series: Scandalwood: Tales of Dick Booping, PI [2]
Category: Fail_Fandomanon RPF
Genre: Boop noir, Detective Noir, M/M, Pining, Private Investigators, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 11:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3408497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick Booping is alone on Valentine's Day until he gets an unwanted call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scandalwood Tales: Cheap Chocolate's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by comments on Dick Booping on failfandom anon and the title was inspired by a comment by a nonnie.

He knew that Whitecock would call. Whitecock always did and never for good reasons.

Booping was spending Valentine’s Day the way he always did, a date with unsolved case files and a big bottle of firewater pretending to be whiskey. He rubbed his jaw covered in two day’s stubble as he considered whether or not to answer the phone.

He hit ignore and counted it the best decision he ever made.

He swiveled his creaky old desk chair to look out over the frozen hellscape of the city in winter. His tiny crowded office felt positively cozy in comparison. February might be a short month in time, but longest in weight on the soul. 

Whitecock called again. And again. 

He rolled his eyes. Whitecock was probably calling about some impossible case where he’d make all the money and toss the scraps to him. Or worse leaving him holding the bag or nursing a gunshot wound. God, he hated the man.

The phone rang. But it wasn’t Whitecock.

The deep gravelly voice of Captain Johnson of the local precinct demanded, “I have a friend of yours here. Come and get him. Now.”

Booping counted the number of his true friends on one hand because he was everyone’s friend when they got into trouble. He shoveled his files back into the storage box, capped the whiskey, and grabbed his trenchcoat as he headed off into the cold lonely night.

Past midnight, his favorite time in the city. Streets were full of icy dirty snow and people bundled up against the sharp wind rushed under the harsh late night neon. Hearts were getting broken out there in the night, betrayal and lies lying thick in the fancy restaurants and swanky apartments on the most romantic night of the year. 

More business for Dick Booping, P.I., tomorrow.

At the station, Johnson growled at Booping, “It’s about time you showed up.” Johnson grumbled as he lead Booping through Booking, already filled with the drunk, the high, the assaulters, all the regular filth that populated police stations on a Saturday night.

Johnson pointed to a holding cell. Booping groaned and stared at the ceiling in disbelief. Whitecock was sitting fresh as a daisy, shining like an angel, and as sharply dressed and styled as ever among the drunk and angry. “Oh, say, I’m so glad to see you, old friend,” Whitecock said.

“Whatever,” Booping snapped. The booking officer jumped to spring Whitecock from the holding cell. Whitecock stood to the side, the picture of suave and sophisticated, as Booping filled out paperwork and called a cab.

Squeezed into the back seat of a cab with Whitecock shoved against him, Booping listened with restrained anger to Whitecock ramble on. “I called of course. When you didn’t answer, I thought you might be out on a case. It’s a rotten night to be out investigating.”

Whitecock as usual didn’t show any concern of how he was getting from the police station to the Ritz-Carlton. He told his story thinking that Booping cared. “In town with Rafe for the weekend. I had a little business for a client and the local constabulary disagreed with my methods. All good now, though, I never like visiting jails.”

Rafe was the latest boy toy in Whitecock’s collection, one of many tan, tall, ripped brunet actor-model-athlete-rich guys that littered his jet-setting life as reported in all the gossip rages.

Booping stared at the seatback. Each time the cab went over a pothole, Whitecock bumped into him, his expensive wool coat rubbing against his shoulder, the pricey suit against his legs. Booping checked his worn trenchcoat, wondering if the brown stain on his arm was dirt or blood. He was sure he smelt of days old smoke and grime unlike the enticing scent of Whitecock’s musky sandalwood cologne.

“We should get a drink, you know, while I’m in town,” Whitecock suggested. He smiled, a brilliant flash of white teeth.

“Right,” Booping replied. “Last time we did that I ended up in the hospital gut-shot.”

“I promise – nothing like that this time.” Whitecock nudged him. He lowered his voice. “Just this once, Dick?” His hand brushed against Dick’s, sending an electric shockwave up his arm.

If he gave into temptation, Whitecock would insist on a good bar with excellent liquor. Booping could taste the best whiskey he’d have in months on the tip of his tongue. He was jolted back into reality as the cab slammed to a halt in front of the hotel.

Whitecock locked his brilliant blue eyes on Booping’s. He waited for the invitation to come in for that drink. The breath caught in Booping’s throat as Whitecock leaned over. He coughed. “I’m meeting Rafe now.”

“God. Why in the hell did you call me? Rafe too good to bail you out?” Booping snarled.

“Rafe’s working and he had places to be. Couldn’t really bother him, you know.” Whitecock shrugged.

“Get out and don’t ever call me again.”

Whitecock smiled like he owned Booping. “Talk to you later, Dickie.” He shut the cab door.

Booping punched the car seat and gnashed his teeth. Tricked. Used. Tossed aside. Some Valentine’s Day for him – delivering Whitecock into the arms of his boy toy of the minute and then sent on his way back to his empty office. It would be a cold day in Hell before he’d help Whitecock.


End file.
